


Expiration Date

by rarmaster



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M, in the span of a week i've fallen embarrassingly deep into metal gear and otasune hell, take this from my hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 02:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarmaster/pseuds/rarmaster
Summary: In which Otacon is stressed to discover his boyfriend has a literalexpiration datebranded on him, and Snake is a romantic sap who just wants his boyfriend to chill, maybe just a little bit, please it's really not that big of a deal.





	Expiration Date

**Author's Note:**

> Low-key inspired by [this amazing fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5948860/chapters/13675045), at least re: setting and characterization, a lil bit. 
> 
> UPDATE: I'VE HIT MGS4 NOW AND HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I SWEAR I HAD NO IDEA

You’re in the kitchen of yours and Otacon’s shared—small—apartment, eggs cooking on the stove. You’re shirtless, because it’s hot enough in California in the summer to warrant that, and… Otacon likes it, so.

To your surprise, you hear Otacon making his way out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. He usually sleeps all day considering he also stays up all night, and you have to yank him out of bed more mornings than you don’t. Even the eggs currently in the pan were going to be a part of a breakfast-in-bed that was supposed to coax him into the waking world this morning. You find yourself a little disappointed that that plan is shot, but only a little, because Otacon presses into your side, his hand on your right shoulder, and he kisses you on the cheek with all the grace of someone who is still mostly asleep. You feel his nose more than you do his lips, but that just makes you smile. You love this man so much.

“’Mornin, Snake,” he mumbles, words slurred a little. He takes a second to adjust his glasses, but then his hand is on your shoulder again, his other wrapped lightly around your wrist. You have to swap the spatula to your left hand to deal with the eggs, but you don’t mind.

“Kinda strange to see you up this early,” you tease.

“Yeah, well,” he begins, but doesn’t finish. The way he presses his face into your shoulder and squeezes your wrist gives you a pretty good idea of what might be on his mind, though. His fingers trail along your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where they stop. You think this is kind of weird, but you keep your attention on the eggs and don’t question it. “Hey, Snake, I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while, but keep forgetting…”

“Yeah?” you ask, intrigued. His tone of voice is… strange. Maybe your confusion bleeds into your question, because Otacon laughs.

“Oh! Just, wondering where you got this tattoo.”

You blink.

“Tattoo?” you ask. “I don’t have any—” But then you stop, registering _where_ Otacon’s fingers are on your neck, exactly. You keep forgetting about the damn thing. “Oh. Right. That one.”

Otacon laughs some more, his hand falling from your neck. “You don’t remember getting it? Geeze, Snake! What did you do, sleep through it? Only you could do that.”

You start to protest, but don’t quite have the words yet. It wasn’t like you _got_ this tattoo, you were born with it, or… something along those lines. But you haven’t quite figured out how to express what it is to Otacon, and hate going into sentences without thinking about them first, plus Otacon keeps talking—

“What’s the significance of this date, anyway? Something important? I sure don’t recognize it, but—hey, hang on, that year is _ages_ from now!” He laughs with disbelief, face close to your neck at he peers at the thing. “Why’d you get a tattoo of a date that’s in the future, huh? No, wait, let me guess! You were drunk when you got it, or maybe your friends told the tattoo artist something ridiculous to—”

“Expiration date,” you interrupt.

“Huh??”

“It’s an expiration date.”

Otacon pulls his fingers back as if he’s been stung. “What?! Why would you have a—”

“Clone, remember?”

“Oh…”

There’s a weight in his voice, and you can _feel_ the way his body trembles behind you. His grip on your wrist tightens.

“Yup,” you say, and nothing more.

“Well- well- at least it’s still pretty far off, huh?” Otacon laughs, but it’s the laugh he makes when he’s having trouble processing what’s going on. You recognize he’s trying to make light of the situation, and wonder if it’s for his sake or your own. You’re touched if he’s worried about you, though he doesn’t need to be. You’ve made your peace with the date tattooed on your neck long ago.

(The date isn’t far off, actually. Sure, it’s ten, fifteen years away, but those years will be over before you know it, and you’re well aware of that.)

“And- and, maybe it’s more like, uh, you know, a sell-by date?” Otacon continues, still laughing his stressed-the-fuck-out laugh. “Like milk has! So maybe it’s not even accurate and, and maybe you’ll have longer—”

You can _feel_ how upset he is about this, and you hate it, you can’t stand it. You rotate your hand under his grasp to grip his wrist in a mirror of how he grips yours, dropping the spatula on the counter and turning to face him. He won’t look at you, and his eyes are wide, panicked. You grab him by the shoulder with your other hand to try and steady him, put your faces close together.

“Listen, Otacon, it’s okay,” you begin. But then you regret it, because you didn’t have any words planned after that. You were just so focused on how Otacon was freaking out and wanting to make it _better._

“It’s _okay_!?” he demands, and he pulls away from you. You let him push your hand off your shoulder, but you hold onto his wrist even as he lets go. “Are you saying you don’t mind having an _expiration date_!?” He waves his free hand through the air in frustration, and makes to move the other one, except you _refuse_ to let go of it. “You don’t mind that the _day you die_ is tattooed on your neck?! Snake!! How can you not care about that!!”

You wait until he’s done yelling, then take a deep breath.

“Well, there’s not really anything I can do to change it.” The words come easy, because you’ve thought them a lot. “All I can do is make sure I get the most out of what time I have left.”

“Snake,” Otacon says. You aren’t sure if the word is fond or if it’s the start of another protest, but you don’t let Otacon finish regardless.

“Honestly, maybe I’ll get lucky and Naomi’s foxdie will kill me before then,” you joke. “Or I’ll die on some mission. Hate to die on schedule, you know.”

“I’d rather you didn’t die at all!!” Otacon protests, not amused. You can hear how much he cares about you in the way his voice trembles, and it makes you feel warm, even though he’s mad at you.

You shrug, try not to smile too wide. “I was going to die eventually, expiration date or no,” you tell him. “We’re not immortal.”

“Well yeah but- but you should die old! And grey! Peacefully in bed or- or something!!”

You laugh, rolling your eyes.

“Like that was ever going to happen, considering our line of work.”

“WELL IT COULD HAVE!!”

You consider him a moment, consider the way he’s shaking, the way he’s glaring at you. His glasses are falling down his nose. You love him so much. You really do.

You let go of his wrist and take a step forward, grabbing him by the shoulders.

“Otacon,” you say, and nothing more for a second, as you roll the words over in your head. He meets your gaze defiantly. You aren’t sure how to ask _why does this matter to you_ because you know, and you’re not sure how to tell Otacon to stop caring because you _like_ the fact that Otacon cares. You just don’t want this to destroy Otacon, because it isn’t destroying you.

“I meant it, what I said,” you say finally, certain of the words. “About making the most of what time I have left. And, so far, I think I’m doing a pretty good job of it.” You flash him a smile.

Otacon seems to be calming down. He takes off his glasses so he can scrub the tears out of his eyes, looking away from you as he does. You give him the space to do so, but keep your hands on his shoulders.

“Y- yeah,” Otacon laughs. It’s still nervous, but not as stressed as before. He returns his glasses to his face. “I guess, uh. I guess dedicating our lives to destroying Metal Gear is a pretty good way to spend it, huh? Noble an all. So at least you—”

“That’s not what I meant,” you interrupt.

He looks at you, really looks at you.

“It isn’t?”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks a bit, but keep your gaze fixed on him, even if you are a little embarrassed by your next words. Embarrassment is for losers.

“I meant… spending my time with you.”

“O- oh!” Otacon stammers in surprise, jolting a little. He blinks rapidly at you as he takes your words in. His cheeks turn a little pink. “I- oh I’m- I, uh.” He can’t seem to find the words. You take another step forward to close the space between the two of you, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.

It’s, not as long as you would’ve liked it to be.

“Snake,” Otacon interrupts, urgent, pushing against you. “Snake, I think you’re burning the eggs.”

The smell of something burning finally registers to your nose.

“Oh shit,” you say. You let go of him, and hurry to salvage them. He laughs as you do, and it’s a beautiful, wonderful sound.


End file.
